Murder Most Surprising
by ashley.hillson2012
Summary: Moriarty shows up at Sherlock's flat while John is away. Moriarty needs help proving his innocence in a murder he didn't commit. Sherlock must decide if it's worth risking his neck to protect him, with the possible help from John. Has definite JohnLock and may have Sheriarty/John Moriarty, or threesome. Definite smut. You have been warned.
1. Taking the Case

Confused, as always, as to the point of dating or mating in general, Sherlock didn't understand why John was going. He had a fairly decent looking female, granted, but Sherlock only noticed because John had stressed the beautiful points to the point where Sherlock found it difficult to delete it from his brain.

"There's no point. She doesn't have what you're looking for." Sherlock commented, watching John straighten his tie.

"You can think whatever you want of her, Sherlock, it won't change my mind. I'll be back later tonight." With that he left the room and the flat. Sherlock watched from the window as he crossed the street and walked farther away. Sighing, Sherlock steeled himself for a night alone, bored.

"Booooored," he groaned at the walls before shooting from the chair and wandering the flat. For the next three and a half hours he tried his hardest to keep from shooting up the apartment. John hadn't reacted very well to that last time. Neither, he recalled, had Mrs. Hudson.

He was about to give up and attempt sleep when there was a knock on the front door. The curiosity in him sparked a maddening desire to just do something, anything. He bound towards the door, wondering if it were a client and why the person was up so late at night. It was-Sherlock glanced at his clock-11:30pm. When he swung the door inward, the curiosity may have stayed but hot, uncontrollable anger sizzled inside his veins.

Moriarty stood with his hands in his pockets, staring at Sherlock. After a few seconds, he asked, "are you going to let me in?"

"No." Sherlock said flatly and made to close the door. He saw Moriarty reach forward, going to attempt to stop Sherlock, but he stopped the door himself. "I will, however, ask what you are doing here."

"I need your help." Sherlock frowned, possibly more intensely so than he usually did, and studied the man. Surely enough, he wasn't lying. Though what he needed help for and why he thought Sherlock would be a great helper, was beyond even his amazing deductive skills.

"I am not known for helping criminals." He stated flatly and this got a small rise from Moriarty.

Moriarty, fluster in his cheeks, stepped forward and shoved against the door. Sherlock, having not anticipated the bold move, stepped back. Moriarty strode meaningfully into the flat, looking around. He seemed completely not amused.

"You're still living with the Dr. Watson?"

"Yes. I don't see how that's important to you or any problem you may have."

"Dr. Watson can not know I was here." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, slowly closing the front door. Moriarty sat on the couch gingerly, seemingly almost afraid to fluff up the air. "This is just for you. Watson wouldn't understand." His eyes rose and locked onto Sherlock's. Sherlock frowned, his eyebrows raising but he made no move. Even when Moriarty motioned to the seat next to him.

"You tried to kill me, as well as John, on many occasions. I won't just sit here and allow you to talk me into helping you with a problem."

"I ask you just to hear me out." There was a silence, only broken by the breathing of the two men. Inside both of their minds, there was no need for words. They assessed one another, every tiny piece of speck analyzed as if they were looking for a murderer. In a way, Sherlock wondered if he was looking at a murderer who needed help with another body. Or more.

Sighing, Sherlock had to admit that he was interested at least. He had nothing else to do for they'd just finished a case and Sherlock was already close to his dark place.

Instead, though, of sitting next to Moriarty, he say in his chair and cupped his hands together in front of his face. The other man seemed more than a little pleased and relaxed backwards.

"Tell me, then, why you are here." Sherlock demanded in his usual voice towards those who thought they had a problem difficult enough for him. Oftentimes, they were easily solved.

Moriarty knew this voice, knew what it entailed, but he chose to ignore it and instead told Sherlock his problem.

"You know my past just as well as I know my own. I get that. But this once, I didn't kill the woman."

Sherlock leaned back, surprise actually lining his features that were otherwise unreadable.

"A woman was murdered? When and where?" Sherlock asked.

"Last night." Moriarty said and then stopped. Sherlock knew by the silence and the expression that he wasn't going to know where. "All you need to understand is she was killed and I didn't do it."

"This time. Were you seen?"

"Yes. I got away, obviously." Sherlock stiffened and ignored a need to look at the door and windows. He didn't want to be associated with a murderer any more than he had to. It was already hard enough to stay on the good side without Moriarty. "No, no one followed me. I'm not an imbecile."

"Why were you there, with the body?"

"Would you believe me if I told you she was where I was walking? I found her shortly before a teenage couple did. They saw me leaning over her. I was checking her pulse. I am not heartless."

"I'm to assume you didn't stick around, knowing they would not only blame it on you but catch you for the other murders." Sherlock tapped his pointer finger on his lip in thought. Moriarty smiled a soft, smile Sherlock could only describe as disturbingly pleased. It didn't disturb Sherlock as he suspected it did everyone else.

"They didn't see you." Sherlock said, raising his head from his fingertip. Moriarty nodded the positive. "So why do you need help?"

"I touched her neck. To check for a pulse." Moriarty said with a wave of his hand. Sherlock's eyebrows drew together, thoughts connecting like puzzle pieces in his head.

"Your fingerprints," Sherlock murmured and Moriarty smiled a toothy grin.

"If they find them, I'll be a red flag. They may not look for any other clue, given my background."

"There is little I can do about that. The body is most likely surrounded by police. The clues and evidence are already being found. I won't stick my neck out for you by going into the crime scene and removing your fingerprints." Sherlock rose from the chair and Moriarty shot up, grabbing Sherlock by the upper arm. The detective stiffened, readying for a fight. The first punch was never thrown.

"Not so much as that, Sherlock. I need to be hidden. You have a reputation in this country, they wouldn't search for a murderer with you." Sherlock could honestly say he was stunned. What made the man think Sherlock would be okay with hiding him when there were more reasons to give the man up than he had appendages?

Before Sherlock could make up his mind, let alone think any of it through, he heard footsteps going up the stairs. By the sound, it was John. Sherlock knew John was loyal to the death but there were still some things he was not okay with.

Moriarty looked to Sherlock, a blank look on his face. It was obvious he was going to do whatever Sherlock thought best. Moriarty knew John so little, he waited for Sherlock to give him the best idea. Sherlock was intrigued at the sudden trust Moriarty had in his opinion. Sherlock waited a moment to gauge if the man would become nervous but, like he knew, Moriarty showed nothing but a small amount of curiosity.

John walked into the room and stopped dead. Thankfully, his date hadn't come up with him. Sherlock leveled a stare at him, wondering how he would react. John looked between the two men, seeing the non-violence that usually was never there, and closed the door behind him.


	2. Curiosity Almost Killed the Moriarty

"John, I..." Sherlock started but John put a hand up, breaking eye contact as he walked between the two men and out of the room.

"I'm going to bed. Please don't keep me up." Sherlock didn't follow John, not willing to leave Moriarty alone. He heard the click of a door closing and he turned to Moriarty who looked utterly amused.

"John and I live here. If you do anything at all to make it difficult for either of us, or jeopardize our lives in any way, I'll take you to Lt. Lestrade myself." Sherlock said, deadly calm. Moriarty nodded solemnly, knowing pushing Sherlock when John was involved was close to suicide.

Sherlock knew Moriarty wouldn't try anything simply by his reaction to the threat. He turned on his heel and followed John, determined to not make a huge mess.

As is won't of most humans, John was emotional. Sherlock never had a reason to care or even notice such things before John but now he was determined, almost constantly, to make things right to John. Sure, he didn't understand that calling John's brain average was rude most times, but he could tell when his flatmates feelings became hurt and he normally knew how to make it better.

Having walked into the flat and seen Moriarty and Sherlock talking, if not fully calm, must have been too much for John to accept. Sherlock heard the shower and sighed. He opened the door. What did it matter? John had no anatomy that differed from his, even if he was shy about it.

"John I must explain myself to you." Sherlock declared after closing the door behind himself. John started violently, an elbow hitting the shower wall.

"Bullocks Sherlock! I'm stark naked! You can't just barge in here!"

"I already did. To the point, I need you to listen to me."

"I heard you the first time, and no, I don't. You're a grown man, though you rarely act like it." He poked his head from the curtain, wet fingers gripping the curtain to keep it from showing anything more. "I am aware of how you see the world, Sherlock. If you want to have a psychotic murderer, who, by the way, attempted to kill us both on many occasion, over for dinner or drinks, that's fine. I'm not your mother." He tried pulling back but Sherlock's hand wrapped around his wrist quick as lightning.

"No, John. I need you to listen to me." The look in his eyes must have done it because John sighed deep and nodded.

"Fine but give me a second to get out, ya?" Sherlock nodded, letting his wrist go and stepping back. He went into the hall, closing the door. Moriarty was at the end of the hall, his hands behind his back. Sherlock thought for a moment but came to the conclusion that he was without weapon, yet far beyond harmless.

He stepped closer to Moriarty who readied to step to the side to let the man pass. Sherlock stopped a good five feet away.

"If you want my help, you're going to have to listen." Moriarty nodded, a look of serious determination crossing his face. Sherlock questioned why the man was so set upon hiding from this one murder rather than disappear elsewhere just like the ones he had actually committed. "You'll sleep on the couch. No food without permission, or drink. The windows are obviously not a good place to stay."

"I know how to hide out. As well as be respectful, Sherlock. Please do me the honor of not treating me like a simple minded-man."

Sherlock stared and nodded a small bit. "Just remember," he said softly, "John is not a toy for you. You will leave him be." Moriarty nodded, though Sherlock could see a small smile on his face as the man turned and went down the stairs to the living room.

John came out of the bathroom momentarily afterwards, locating Sherlock before heading towards him. They went to John's room where the door shut and John bustled about getting ready for bed.

"You can explain whenever, Sherlock, I won't stay up all night." John quipped and Sherlock shifted, for he'd been standing stiff next to the door, trying to gauge if John's mood was from the date or Moriarty.

"He needs help." Sherlock said and John started laughing so hard Sherlock paused.

"That's rich, honest. Does he expect us to help him? Is he trying to run from a murder he committed again?"

"He didn't do it, John." Sherlock said softly. The tone of his voice shut John up and he looked over, studying the mans expression.

"How do you know?"

"I can tell." There was a pause in which John made the motion for Sherlock to continue. "I know he's a liar, therefore I won't take everything he says to be honest. but I know he didn't kill the woman. She was dead and he checked her pulse. A couple came along and he said he ran. His fingerprints are on her neck. I told him he could use the couch and that he needed to stay away from you."

"You didn't even consult me first!" John exploded, unsure why he did so, considering he was kind of okay with it, Sherlock could tell. Maybe he shouldn't have said yes to Moriarty so quickly.

"John, he needed an answer and I knew I could keep him from you. If you want, I can send him away." Sherlock turned to go do just that but John sighed and ran a hand over his own face.

"No, it's fine. I'm tired and I'm going to bed. Let me know if Lestrade calls about the woman."

Sherlock nodded and left the room. At least John was aware they might get the call. He wasn't happy about Moriarty but he trusted Sherlock enough to know he was safe. For some reason, knowing the amount of trust John had in him, Sherlock felt warm inside. It was a strange feeling, that's for sure.

On the couch in the living room, Moriarty sat. Sherlock grabbed a blanket and a pillow for the man and said he could have anything to drink through the night. No need to waken anyone just because he was thirsty. He also talked through the rooms there were, letting him know which were the bedrooms just to stay away.

After Sherlock had gone to his own room, he checked his phone. No messages but that was a given. One dead body wouldn't raise so much suspicion. Not until they found the fingerprints. Then he would definitely be getting calls or texts.

In the living room, Moriarty rose from the couch. He would have to be quiet. Just because he needed to use the restroom didn't mean he needed Sherlock sniffing at his ankles.

After relieving himself, Moriarty walked to John's room and stared at the closed door. What was the obsession? Why was the emotionless, hard Sherlock so obsessed with a war doctor? He touched the door just barely, fingertips grazing the wood. Without possibly anger Sherlock enough to throw him at the police, he couldn't go inside and check the doctor out.

He quietly went back to the couch and lied down. It was hard for him to settled, considering where he was, but he at least got a few hours so he wasn't in trouble the next day.

Sherlock listened to Moriarty. The soft steps led to the bathroom and then, as they got closer to John's room, Sherlock left his own bedroom. He stood around the corner, ready to move forward at any second. His muscles bunched as Moriarty's hand rose to the door but not the handle.

To Sherlock's confusion, Moriarty turned and quietly left to go to the living room, where Sherlock heard him settle upon the couch. For a few minutes, he waited just in case Moriarty suspected being watch and came back, but decided he'd hear him again if it did happen. Sherlock didn't sleep at all.


	3. Frame Job

**forgot to mention this is post Reichenbach. Soooorry.**

In the morning, John came into the kitchen and found Sherlock having made tea. Perfectly. The man was definitely feeling bad. John took the cup Sherlock handed to him and leaned against the counter.

"I am perfectly fine with it." John said and Sherlock pretended not to hear him. John sighed and turned his body towards the man. "It's okay."

Sherlock looked up, his dark curls just brushing his eyebrows. John couldn't help but smile a kind way. The man was a genius, but he was also in many ways a bigot. He had no idea how to deal with people and he was probably just thinking about why Moriarty wanted safety with him, not wanting Moriarty in the flat.

"Okay?" Sherlock asked, a rare thing showing John he was very much so sorry. Had the man even slept? He had rings under his eyes.

"Yes, it's okay. Have you gotten a call from Lestrade yet?"

"My brother called but I didn't answer."

"Why not?"

"I don't like talking to him."

"Of course." John sighed and pushed from the counter. He set the tea down, spectacularly made, and went to his bedroom. He grabbed up his phone and found a text message not too long ago.

_Moriarty's prints on a body-_ Lestrade.

John stared for a second before getting dressed. He knew Sherlock would either take forever or run out the door right away once John mentioned the text, so it was better to be prepared for the worst.

As he left his room, he saw Moriarty in the hall. He paused, pulling his bedroom door shut. Moriarty was staring straight at him. It took more effort than John would admit to not go back to his room. Instead, trusting in Sherlock, he walked towards MOriarty in hopes the man would let him pass without problem.

Just as he thought Moriarty wouldn't move, the man shifted and made space for John. Eyes still locked onto him, Moriarty waited until the last second before grabbing John's arm. The contact was solid, but soft. John didn't feel trapped, but he suddenly felt that much less safe. He'd been at the mercy of Moriarty more than once before. He'd put them both through hell, and then Sherlock had jumped, and John had spent so much of his life afterwards in a depression.

"Why does Sherlock protect you so much? You're a doctor from a war. There's plenty of them. I see nothing special about you, Mr. Watson. Inform me..." He cut off sharply when Sherlock appeared and the look on his face could have killed someone were it possible. Moriarty made quick to release John and back away.

"John, your tea is cold." Sherlock said, waiting at the end of the hall. John nodded and headed towards Sherlock without looking back. As he passed Sherlock, he had a faint feeling of being set free from a viscous pair of dogs. How on Earth had he gotten stuck between those two?

Back in the kitchen, John downed his tea and the moment Sherlock walked back in he mentioned the text.

"That part is true, then. Because he didn't kill her." John said, gauging Sherlock's reaction, though he knew it was almost pointless.

"Yes."

Silence followed before Sherlock turned and walked towards the front door.

"Come, John, let us go see what we can do about Moriarty's killing."

John followed, glancing at the couch where Moriarty sat, watching John with an expression like that of a hawk eyeing a terrified rabbit. Determined to not give the man ideas that he was so easily take hold of, John made eye contact and then left.

At the morgue, Sherlock looked over the body. He had neither approved nor disapproved of Moriarty's hand in the crime.

"It is odd, yes," John commented, "that his prints were on her neck but she didn't die from a neck injury. Is there anything else? Do we know why she died?"

"Trauma," Lestrade answered, "she died from..."

"Trauma to the back of the head. Most likely broken bones along her back. A soft coloring of new bruises along her under arms and legs, suggesting she didn't die right away. She was pushed off of something. Where was she found?" Sherlock interrupted Lestrade as if the man hadn't been talking.

"In an alleyway. There was nothing she could have fallen from or been pushed from. The buildings were too large for such small damage."

"A window. Were there any possible windows?"

"She was lying a bit funny. There were a few landings above, possibly one she was pushed from." Sherlock leveled a look at Lestrade. Even John knew that this information should have been a dead giveaway but also, the lieutenant looked very tired.

"We'll go look in the alley, see what we can find." Sherlock said, rising from his soft crouch. The two men left the morgue.

At the alleyway, Sherlock noticed more than one suggestive piece of evidence to the fall happening on the second floor balcony. The damage that was caused seemed the most plausible from the second one in, as well. Having gotten up there, he noticed scuff marks from feet as well as some shredded skin on the edge where he guessed she scraped her elbows and fingers.

The only problem was the shoe prints seemed almost deliberatly put in place. Worse as well, they were the same type and size of shoe he knew Moriarty wore. He told as much to John, who frowned.

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know," Sherlock replied softly as he stared hard at the cement like the answer would just point itself out.

John's phone rang and after a soft, quick conversation he looked at Sherlock. "Another body showed up. Moriarty's fingerprints are all over it. First theory is she was choked to death. Fingernails have scratched-off skin. It's being taken to the lab now."

"That's not good." Sherlock said softly, not moving his gaze.

"How sure are you that Moriarty didn't do this? Didn't kill her? Or the newest victim?" Now Sherlock did look up and directly into John's eyes.

"He's being framed." The way he said it, the way he was looking at John, made John realize that Sherlock honestly didn't just feel that Moriarty was innocent, but knew it fully. Something that Moriarty had said or did in front of Sherlock had proved, without a doubt, his innocence in these murders.

"You think he knows who it is?"

"Almost positively."


	4. Things Are Better Done in Two's

Before going to talk to Moriarty, the boys had to go to the other crime scene. The woman was face down, unlike the first one. Her neck, where it was visible, was a deep purple. The scarf that was used to choke her was still wrapped around her throat. The body had been found next to a dock in the sand.

After assessing the body, Sherlock told them the body had been moved to this spot.

"She had shoes when she died." Pause. "She died in grass, not sand."

"There's sand over there," Lestrade pointed but Sherlock didn't even look up.

"The grass is too long, the grass between her toes is much longer. Not mowed recently." He rose from the body and looked at John.

"The body's been dead for as long the other woman." John said softly and Sherlock nodded. After letting Lestrade know they were leaving, the boys went back to the apartment to find Moriarty gazing out a window.

Moriarty had been watching the news, they knew, since it was softly playing. John felt Moriarty's eyes upon him so he left the room under the pretense that he was going to get lunch. Sherlock strode towards him and Moriarty let the curtain fall as he pivoted to face Sherlock.

"You're being framed."

"I know."

"Who?" Sherlock demanded, his eyes aflame with anger towards the man. Knowing he would put John and himself in danger for this man only to have him turn around and say he knew the whole time was just short of asking to be thrown out the window.

"I don't know." Moriarty said, his eyes locked onto Sherlock's. He could read the anger, the desire to harm, boiling inside the man.

Sherlock was suddenly torn. He'd been sure Moriarty was up to one of his tricks once more but he could see the man wasn't lying about not knowing. Unless Moriarty had found a way to lie without being noticed. Which was possible but Sherlock didn't want to dwell on that possibility.

He went to the kitchen without another word. John had already made himself a quick lunch and was eating. Sherlock sat at the table with him, looking fully irate. It didn't take a genius to understand that Moriarty was the reason behind the irateness.

John finished his breakfast and cleaned the dishes. Sherlock still hadn't moved from his spot so John didn't leave the kitchen, waiting to see if the man would have something to say. After a few moments, Moriarty came in and seemed shocked at seeing he two flatmates just waiting in silence.

He asked if he could make something for food and John said it would be fine. Since Moriarty was now in the kitchen, John left and went to the living room. Being in his own home was difficult, considering there was a murderer who had aimed for him this morning.

Later in the evening, Sherlock and John were on the couch, talking about the murders. Moriarty was in the bathroom, supposedly taking a shower. It had only been a few minutes after five in the afternoon when Sherlock's phone rang.

He looked at it and frowned. John knew the man well enough to know it was his brother, Mycroft. As he took the call, John wandered to his room. When he got to his door, he saw Moriarty rounding the corner of the hallway. Determined to not show any weakness to the man who, honestly, probably knew how John felt every second, John broke eye contact and entered his room.

The door closed and he walked to his closet where he pulled out his night clothes. Just as he turned to put them onto his bed, his door opened. for a moment, he expected Sherlock, which is why he couldn't stop his surprised jump.

"I didn't think you were... uh.. you" John said, putting his clothes down. He acted like nothing was out of place as he turned back around, closing the closet doors. It was very uncomfortable to have his back to the crazed psycho, but he wanted as little for him to go on as possible.

"That's all right." Moriarty said calmly, closing the door quietly. He leaned against it, his eyes locked on John.

John felt watched, in a horrible way. The eyes looking at him reminded him of Sherlock. They were hard, calculating, and unforgiving. They saw the world in bits and pieces to be put together and easily got bored. The only difference was that Sherlock kept himself busy finding murderers where Moriarty kept himself busy being a murderer.

He knew, as well, that if it came between him and Moriarty, John wouldn't have a chance. Moriarty was smarter than he, and much more violent than Sherlock. With Moriarty, John didn't have to worry about a head in the fridge or if he is adding drugged sugar into his tea. No, with Moriarty he'd be checking the food and drink for poison, he'd jump every time a knock sounded through the apartment. He'd be so high on anxiety that his heart would give out.

If Sherlock every felt that he was alone in the world, he'd just have to remember that Moriarty didn't have anyone. He wasn't nice enough in any aspect, not saying Sherlock was easy to live with, but he had not a single person willing to help keep him alive without being threatened.

John suddenly realized exactly what he'd do for Sherlock.

Realizing this, he straightened his spine fully and glued his eyes to Moriarty's. Seeing the change, the psycho looked a bit taken back, but he held his ground.

"Sherlock and I aren't going to break. He knows I'm loyal to him and I'd do anything to keep him safe. I don't agree with him keeping you here but he does everything for a reason." Moriarty looked bored, suddenly, and John felt a spike of anger shoot up his spine. "You will not put him in harm!" John stomped forward, the memory of watching Sherlock fall to his death surged and he felt his fists ball.

"I would never," Moriarty said calmly, his eyes darting to John's fists and then back up. John couldn't tell if the man was worried, impressed, or still bored.

"Your blatant lie is not unexpected." John spat, relaxing his fists only to ball them up again when Moriarty smiled. Nothing good ever came from that smile.

"I'm not lying, Dr. Watson. I won't harm Sherlock while I stay here. He is doing me a favor, helping me out of a jam. Or pickle, mind you." The man smiled, taking a step forward. John stiffened, expecting a fight. "I swear to you, since Sherlock feels the need to keep his adorable pet close, that I am not killing these women."

John frowned, his fists relaxing a bit but he stayed on guard. "Women? There's only been two." Moriarty rolled his eyes, a thing John learned to take from Sherlock as he was missing an obvious clue.

"Why else would Mycroft be calling Sherlock? They're not exactly the best of brothers."

John felt a realization slip through him. There must have been more murders. And he was in his room with Mycroft, threatening the man, when Sherlock was out having, as he would say, all the fun.

Moriarty looked stunned as John suddenly moved forward, closer to him, in order to remove himself from the room. too quick, John found himself within arms reach of Moriarty and was grabbed. More forcefully grabbed than previously. John was surprised enough to try and step back but Moriarty went with, using his momentum to keep going backwards. John's hear rate spiked, his arms grabbing Moriarty's upper arms and trying to get the man to stop.

Right as John's legs hit the bed, Moriarty stopped. He smiled malevolent and said, in a low voice, "Sherlock is busy on the phone. He won't notice you've been gone too long for a few more seconds. Or minutes, perhaps." His smile stretched across his face and John felt blood leave his face.

Just as he was about to do whatever he had in mind, Moriarty let go suddenly and backed away. John wobbled a tiny fraction, more shocked at being let go than anything. He looked at Moriarty.

"If Sherlock figures out I'm trying to know why he is obsessed with you, he may not let me stay. And I need a place to hide out." His smile fell fully off his face and John nodded, leaving the room. Sherlock was still in the same place on the couch as before. As John sat, he hung up the phone.

"A girl was found dead. She had the back of her head smashed in. I told Lestrade to look for a second body."

"A second?"

"The first were the exact same time. I can only assume that means there are going to be two more."


	5. Who Let the Dogs Get Shot?

Not even five hours later Sherlock abruptly stopped playing his violin. John heard and came from his room and wandered to the living room where Sherlock was reading a text message. Moriarty poked his head up from above a book he was reading on the couch. Both men waited in silence for Sherlock to speak. Instead of obliging, he sat his phone down and continued with the violin.

"Damn it Sherlock!" John snapped, forcing Sherlock to stop playing and look to his flatmate. "What was the text?"

"The second body, found on the other side of town. Killed by strangulation." He looked to Moriarty. "Someone has your fingerprints and is having a rather violent time with them. Seems the murders are only women, two at a time at the exact time, both killed the same as the one before her, yet two different methods. Both methods leave finger prints."

John frowned and went for his coat. "Where are the bodies?" Sherlock stared at his flatmate before setting the violin down. He joined John by the front door and almost left before turned back to Moriarty who'd been silently thinking behind his book.

"Make whatever you want for dinner. Or lunch. Whatever time it is. Just don't eat everything. And leave Mrs. Hudson alone or I'll drop you out a window."

Arching an eyebrow in a number of questions Sherlock would most definitely not answer, Moriarty watched the two men leave the flat. As soon as the door closed, he was at the window gently peering through the shades. He watched the men hail a cab and drive away.

Moriarty sat back down, sighing deeply. What on Earth was going on? He was stranded at Sherlock Holmes's flat simply because none of his people would answer calls or texts or even show at the usual meets. Now to top it off, there was two, maybe more people out there armed with his fingerprints and pointing at him as the murderer. Normally, he loved taking credit for his own work but this was ridiculous. The murders weren't even that creative. But the murderer seemed to be. If only he had free will to go about as he please but, of course, his people were, as you'd say, offline.

Sherlock and John had seen both bodies. Both were predictably killed and no one had seen the murder happen. Upon the neck of the bashed in head lay Moriarty's prints. Upon the scarf of the strangled woman lay his prints as well. Whoever was doing this, was framing him in such an obvious way that it took all Sherlock's self control to not tell Lestrade that it wasn't in fact, Moriarty.

Maybe Lestrade already knew and had nothing else to go on. He didn't really blame the man for he saw nothing else, either.

"The only thing that links the two is gender." Sherlock claimed and John nodded, looking all the more stressed at the rise of deaths. Sherlock knew very well that his flatmate was touchy about death, regardless of the fact that it happened to anyone. Yet, on a level, he knew where John stood because if he ever lost John, if John ever blinked out of life and existence he would... would...

Saving him from finishing that thought, Lestrade showed him his phone. It was the picture of two dogs, both dead and lying next to one another. Not big dogs but not small ones, either. They reminded him of half grown shelties. Probably young pure-bloods by the look of their coats. Well groomed as well. The only mar was the bullets through their heads.

Footprints in the mud next to the animals stood out like a sore thumb and Sherlock would bet his own sanity, which wasn't much to be honest, that the prints were the exact same as those found on the balcony.

He said as much to Lestrade and, confused, Lestrade agreed it was possible. John told Lestrade that the size was similar to Moriarty's.

"Not similar," Sherlock pointed out, "exactly his. The shoe, the size, everything."

"So you're suggesting they're his?" Lestrade asked but Sherlock just shook his head and started walking away. John followed, concerned.

They made it back to the flat without a word between the two of them. Sherlock had done nothing but tell the cab driver where to go and to keep the change. John barely made it into the flat before Sherlock had disappeared most likely to his room. Moriarty, looking surprised for once in his life, sat still at the table with a fork full of food part of the way to his mouth. John looked to him and shrugged out of his coat.

"I take it more of my fingerprints along the areas of the deceased to which would have helped out in framing me?" Moriarty asked, his voice like nails on chalkboard to John.

"Yes, and this time, dogs were involved as were your boot brings. Exact boot prints if Sherlock can be trusted. Which is a yes." John walked to the table, seeing the reaction on the psycho's face.

"Dogs?"

"Mmm-hmm." John sat down across the table and made eye contact. Moriarty gave nothing away as to what he was feeling.

"I wouldn't shoot dogs. Whoever this is isn't aware of that. I only shoot humans. The most dangerous animal there is. And even then I don't actually shoot them."

"No, you most of the time have them kill themselves." John dripped anger from his words, which was not missed by Moriarty. The psycho actually was starting to like the spunk and anger Doctor Watson had. Maybe he was starting to understand Sherlock's obsession.

"I give them a choice."

"Either your gun or a worse pain. Not much of a choice. Is that how you sleep at night?"

"No, I usually sleep with a pillow and a blanket. Preferably the ones you have here with Sherlock." Moriarty's eyes danced with amusement as John's fist clenched upon the table. The man was so easy to poke at, so fun to anger. "Tell me, is it yours or Sherlock's pillow? Maybe I have your blanket and his pillow. Or the other way around, perhaps?" His smile grew the more he talked, seeing the flaring anger in the doctors eyes.

Suddenly, John rose and landed an anger-filled punch to Moriarty's face. Surprised, the psycho leaned back in the chair, blood immediatly spilling from his nose. John huffed, having stood up. With the quickness John had showed, Moriarty stood and landed a blow just as hard upon John, splitting his lip open and pooling blood into the hand that cuped his mouth.

The two men stared at each other, Moriarty sickeningly satisfied while John didn't feel any better than before throwing the punch. With a start, he remembered that Sherlock was in the flat and he would have a right cow if he knew the two had come to blows.

"It doesn't right matter who's you are using, just that you have them and you should be thankful."

"Oh, I am."

John stopped himself just barely throwing a second punch. He had to leave the room, or maybe the flat all together. The man was driving him absolutely bonkers. He would loose his wits soon if he wasn't careful.

Turning and leaving the room, John figured he better clean up before Sherlock see him. It was one thing to see Moriarty bleeding out the nose but another to see John bleeding from the mouth. Sherlock would throw a right fit. John knew the man had thrown someone out of the second story window multiple times for leaving a bruise on their landlady once. Currently, they needed Moriarty to not be falling from windows.

In the bathroom, he had to admit that Moriarty had a good punch to him. It stung a great amount, though not horribly, and would definitely leave a bruise. Reminded John of the time they'd thrown punches over a woman. That had been interesting. It hadn't actually been over a woman. More like trying to trick the woman, though she'd already known about the two of them.

John must have spaced off on a trip into his own mind, which he figured Sherlock did oftentimes, because he heard the sounds of angry footsteps coming his way and the bleeding in his lip had stopped without him dabbing at it much more than two or three times. Granted, there was a bit of dried blood down his chin but that was okay.

Sherlock burst through the door, a furious look on his face. He grabbed John by the shoulder and spun him so he was face-to-face. He gave the cut a once over before huffing angrily.

"Not as bad as I thought." He mumbled to himself.

"What did that arse tell you?" John asked, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks again.

"Simply that he deserved the punch. I only assumed he had punched you first."

"No, I punched him first." There was a pause where Sherlock eyed John, thought John knew Sherlock understood he was telling the truth. It didn't take a genius mind.

Quick as lighting, Sherlock's lips touched his, a tenseness in his muscles that proved he was holding back most likely due to the split lip. John was so shocked he did nothing but stand there like an idiot. Sherlock pulled away, licked his lips, and left the bathroom. He left behind a stunned John who couldn't tell if the numbing tingle in his lip was from Moriarty or Sherlock.

In a weird way, he was very much so turned on by the thought of Sherlock having kissed him.


	6. Jealousy Boiling

The next morning, John felt a soreness around his mouth and when he looked, there was a light layer of bruising around the split in his lip. He breathed deep but couldn't downright say he was upset about it. For some reason, the split had made Sherlock kiss him. Or maybe it was something else that had happened. Either way, he was positive it had been something to do with the split.

Moriarty had a bruise along his nose. Not broken, for the eyes had no bruise to them, but it had been a good, solid punch. Surprisingly, the moment John walked into the kitchen, Moriarty spun and smiled brightly.

"I made breakfast. Sherlock said it was okay. He told me to let you know he'd be back soon. There were more murders and he figured you'd want to sleep, rest your face." The smile that John had taken as kindness suddenly seemed malevolent and he didn't want to take the plate that was held out to him.

"I'm not that hungry. I actually just take tea in the morning. I can do it though. I like it a certain way.

Moriarty's smile faltered as John grabbed the makings of tea and set about making his own things. There was something untrustworthy about the man. Maybe it had something to do with all the times he'd attempted to kill him. Or Sherlock. Or maybe the time he'd ran Sherlock to faking his own death for two years. Probably.

"I know we've had our differences but I didn't poison your food. I'm not that evil. If I wanted to kill you, I would do more than poison you."

"I've lived with Sherlock long enough to just not trust food given to me by psychotics." John stated and Moriarty seemed to be taken back, but he accepted that and let the plate drop onto the counter.

"I'm bored. What's there to do in this flat?"

"I wouldn't touch anything of Sherlock's. He may just shoot you between the eyes. And my things are off limits because I don't trust you." John looked up at the man who was starting to become angry. Good, dammit.

"Basically, I'm shite out of luck, ya?"

"Yes." John rose with his tea and left the kitchen, snatching the newspaper and sitting on the couch. He was a bit irate that Sherlock had left without him but he'd get over it. The man probably hadn't slept all night, like usual, and would be right nasty in car rides. Not to mention during the viewing of the crime scene.

After a few moments of utter silence save for a few sharp, angry noises from the kitchen, Moriarty came out with a plate of food, possibly the exact same he'd offered John. For some reason, John got the idea that Moriarty might possibly trying to apologize for punching him. Or egging him on, whichever he possibly felt bad for.

John found it hard at times to think of Sherlock and Moriarty being so close to each other, intelligence wise. Sherlock could be reasonable and he tried to make John happy as well as Mrs. Hudson. He was, in his own way, protective of them two. Moriarty on the other hand would probably kill his own mother without blinking. John didn't know if his family were still alive but he doubted it, honestly.

Currently Moriarty seemed flustered that John had denied the food and downright told him he didn't trust him. It was almost the same expression Sherlock made when his mind couldn't figure out why John was upset about something. Usually it was because Sherlock was a right arse at times.

Silence hovered over the two men for hours as John finished his cup, continued reading, and then started checking on his blog. Moriarty began to fidget, slowly at first, but then annoyingly. John would have worried had it been Sherlock. With Moriarty, though it was probably dangerous, John made to get up and leave.

Of course, as he'd suspected, it had been a very dangerous idea. So dangerous, John wished Sherlock were around in under ten seconds flat. Moriarty had him pinned against the wall, arms pinned above his head. When he breathed sharply inward, the smell of Moriarty filled his nasal cavities.

Moriarty looked at his face for a short moment before he crushed his face against John's. Lips met in a harsh, somewhat pained frenzy. John was caught up in the moment, unsure how to react, trying hard to keep his bottom lip and bunched as possible without splitting his lip. Too late, he tasted a coppery sting of blood and he felt Moriarty's hand run down his arms, no hand cupping behind his head and the other wrapping around his lower back. John couldn't figure out what to do with his free arms.

In a way, he felt like he was doing something dirty. Not because he figured he wasn't gay, but because Sherlock would.. he'd be sad? Would Sherlock feel if he say Moriarty and John kissing? Would he care?

John realized that even if Sherlock didn't care, he did. He pushed Moriarty back, but not too forcefully. He willingly went, his lips the last thing to lose contact. Satisfaction played upon the psycho's features and John felt heat rise.

"I am starting to see why Sherlock keeps you around." Moriarty said softly, backing away. "So loyal to him, you are. You're so adorable."

"Sherlock and I are not a couple. I'm not gay!" John snapped and Moriarty's smile almost ripped his face in half.

"I didn't say either of those things, Doctor Watson." As Moriarty walked away, John realized he hadn't, in fact, hinted at such a thing. He had hinted that not kissing another man was part of it, but not that the two were together or he himself was gay.

What, on Earth, did that mean?

Sherlock knew something was amiss the moment he came through the front doors. Instead of show he knew, he simply sat down. Moriarty appeared from the kitchen and sat on the couch. John, who'd been on the couch the whole time, seemed to stiffen almost imperceptibly.

John's mouth was still bruised, it would be for a few days still. Moriarty's nose was still bruised. Sherlock felt a large amount of pride knowing John had struck first. John was very nervous, but different than usual when Moriarty was so close. He was an emotional creature so that must mean something had happened. Moriarty seemed, in a way, puffed. He had a satisfied twinkly in his eyes. For some reason, Sherlock suddenly felt jealousy crawl into his stomach.

Had they slept together?

Sherlock tightened his grip on the arm chair, which Moriarty noticed and smiled at. He had to tell himself that it didn't matter. He had no claim on John and he was the last person to be telling John the type of person to be with.

"The last two murders were right next to each other, one strangulation the other a blow to the back of the head. Moriarty's finger prints were upon both victims in areas that highly suggest him as the murderer. Lestrade is getting anxious and wants us to find him." Sherlock said quickly, keeping eye contact with John. He couldn't help it, he wanted to pommel Moriarty.

After they had assessed that Moriarty couldn't possibly be the murderer unless he was having people kill, which was very likely to John but Sherlock waved the idea away, the men took to doing their own business. John left for air, Moriarty continued reading one of the books he started, and Sherlock did his best to ignore the man as he played the violin, trying to deduce who the killers were and why they were blaming Moriarty.


	7. Voicing the Jealousy

John knew the look on Sherlock's face when he'd noticed the difference between John and Moriarty. It had been light shock and then anger, all carefully shoved back away. SO he'd gone for air and was hoping against all hopes that when he came back both men would be scattered or just leave him alone. There was only so long he could stay out before Sherlock would text him. There was only so long he could stand Sherlock's silence, for John knew he would never ask what had happened between them. In a way that was comforting and in a way it was painful.

Coming back home he opened the door and took the stairs. Thankfully, Moriarty didn't look up from the couch and his book when John walked in. He got into his room without seeing Sherlock.

After a few hours of trying to sleep, he suddenly sat up and looked around. It occurred to him that it was completely unnecessary for Moriarty to sleep on the couch. There was no place to have time alone because the only areas Moriarty was allowed was open places. Sherlock probably had more valuable things hidden in his room than items in the rest of the flat combined.

John glanced around his room and decided he had less than a few dozen personal items he didn't want Moriarty getting his hands on. All easy to move. He stood at once and left his room. John descended the stairs quietly, hearing faint snoring from the living room. No point in waking the psycho.

It was strange how he fell asleep so easily. You'd think a man sleeping in the flat of two other men who hated him and wouldn't flinch were he dead, would sleep less soundly. Or maybe, John mused, he was faking it. Wouldn't surprise him.

He knocked on Sherlock's door. As he knew, Sherlock wasn't asleep and answered the door almost immediately. He looked almost surprised to see John. Immediately he seemed to relax and gave the smallest of smiles.

"What is it? Do you have any idea what time it is?" He asked, stepping back to let John in the room. Something he'd never done before but given that Moriarty was about, John figured there was no reason Sherlock would want the man to overhear anything.

"Not like it matters to you, you weren't asleep." He saw the mess of random things atop the bed. "Looks like you weren't headed to sleep any time soon either." Sherlock eyed the bed then looked to John, a quizzical expression on his face.

"I had an idea. I was trying to think it through but I figure now is the best..."

"I want your opinion on something. I think it would be a good idea if we..."

Both started and stopped at the same time. Sherlock had a look close to terror. John was sure he'd never quiet talked over/under someone like that before.

John made the motion for him to go first.

"I think Moriarty should take your room for a while. I'm positive you can bring your things in here and we can share. I barely sleep anyway." Sherlock said this in a fast, quipped manner and John, though he'd been thinking something similar, was taken aback by the offer of staying in Sherlock's room. He figured he hadn't really thought where he would sleep yet.

"Oh."

"What were you to say?"

"Pretty much the same thing. I'll, uh... go get my stuff."

"Yes, I will wait." Sherlock watched as John left his room and waited less than ten minutes before the man was back, a handful of things in his arms. None of which were clothes.

"I wouldn't trust Moriarty with my other stuff but it can't all fit in here." John laid the things down on the bed. Mostly toiletries, a few books and trinkets he kept dear. Sherlock noticed he didn't bring his cane, but he did bring the pain pills, though he knew John didn't take them much any more. Probably just an "in case Moriarty is an ass like usual and fucks with my shit" precaution.

Once John seemed settled, he told Sherlock he would go get Moriarty up for his room but only if Sherlock cleaned the damn bed off.

"He isn't sleeping." Sherlock said softly and John nodded that he knew.

Moriarty looked around John's room with mild interest. John hadn't needed to explain to the man, apparently Moriarty didn't give half a damn where he slept, and he wasn't afraid to tell John to shove it. In not so many kind words.

When John tried excusing himself, Moriarty spun and grabbed John's arm. Surprised, and remembering last time, John tried to pull away but he made contact so fast he stilled. For a few moments, he was relaxed and, if he were honest with himself, enjoying it. The lips of the psychotic man were not hard or harsh, they were soft and had a light taste of milk tea. He breathed in and was surprised at the normal smell that came from Moriarty, so manly and musky with aftershave.

Realizing who he was kissing, John shoved hard and glared at the man. Moriarty stumbled, a smile splitting his face. He looked at John, a look in his eyes. John knew the man felt how much John had enjoyed that.

It's because he reminds me of the Sherlock I first met. John said to himself as he left the room, closing the door with a hard click. The man disgusts me, all the blood on his hands.

At Sherlock's room, Sherlock could tell there was a stiffness that hadn't been there before. John lied down on the bed and sighed slowly, deeply.

"Please keep it quiet. I'm going to go to sleep." John attempted to close his eyes and sleep, facing the wall. Unfortunately he heard Sherlock tossing things about the room. Something hit him and he sat up, grabbing a pipe that was perfectly cleaned inside and out. He looked over his shoulder to find Sherlock standing perfectly innocent, hands at his sides, staring at John.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You threw this at me." Silence. "I'm trying to sleep." Silence. "Sherlock!"

"Yes? I heard you the first time." Sherlock said calmly, grabbing the pipe from John and stepping back, continuing to stare at him. They kept eye contact for what seemed like hours before John sighed and rolled over, tossing his legs off the edge and sitting up. He rubbed his eyes and sighed once more.

"Okay, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Shut up." Silence. John looked Sherlock directly in the eyes and waited, determined to not have to actually ask again.

"I..." Sherlock rocked from foot to foot seemingly attempting to find something to do with his hands. "It's none of my business what you and Moriarty do..." John cut him off by raising a hand sharply. Sherlock connected his eyes back to John's who had a speculating look.

"You're jealous?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I've seen you with women before. You dating is not a big deal and I can imagine that you don't just have dinner with them."

"No, but this is Moriarty." Sherlock licked his lips and John realized the man was nervous as well. Did he think he was losing John?

"It doesn't matter, as I said." John rose from the bed slowly, Sherlock eyeing his suspiciously all of a sudden.

"It matters to you, therefor it matters greatly." John said, surprising Sherlock with the sincerity of his words. "You want to know what happened between Moriarty and me?" Sherlock nodded ever so slightly, his eyes glued to John's lips.

Feeling a heat boil in his stomach he'd never felt before but he was absolutely positive he loved it, John slowly licked his lips. Sherlock's face gained a bit of color, eyes widening ever so slightly.

"Nothing important. Just a kiss." John whispered, watching Sherlock's face. Jealously raged inside of his eyes, flashing a grey he'd never seen before.

"You kissed him?"

"No, he kissed me." John reached up and touched Sherlock's chin, slipping two fingers up and touching his lips. The lips immediately split a fraction and John felt his copycat.

Suddenly, strong hands were on his body. One on the back of his neck and the other his hip. Sherlock was there, in his face, lips mere fractions from his. He breathed in, the smell of Sherlock surrounding him in waves of passionate promises. He shook at the thought of a kiss, trembled at the thought of his touch, spasmed at the flashing picture of touching him.

As he leaned in, he looked into John's eyes, most likely glazed with passion, and liked what he saw.

"How many times?"

"Twice... Just now was the second time." Sherlock paused, questions in his eyes. "I pushed him away."

"Why?"

"He isn't, and never will be, you." John whispered and Sherlock pulled him roughly forward, smashing their faces together. John felt lines of sheer feeling and pleasure spark from every nerve in his body where Sherlock touched, his lips radiating a soft pain from the violence of the kiss.


	8. A Late Night Cuddle

He leaned his head to the side, deepening the kiss and heard the pipe fall to the floor. Sherlock pushed and John and him fell in a tumble to the bed. Hands groped John everywhere, making it impossible to get a feel on Sherlock's body for longer than a second or two. Right before he was going to voice an objection to not being able to touch him, he felt soft, long fingers go up his night shirt. He gasped at the feeling, his muscles spasming.

Sherlock paused, pulling back from the kiss and stopping his hands. He looked at John, gauging what the hell just happened.

"Don't stop," John moaned, pulling the man back down and grabbing a handful of dark curls he'd been dying to touch for so long. The kiss was better this time, deep and not as forceful but still full of jealousy and passion.

Just as his hands starting roaming upward under his shirt, a phone buzzed. Sherlock jumped, looking at his phone and obviously thinking if it was worth it to ignore the call. John looked at the time, it was way too late to be getting regular calls.

"Get it, it's obviously important." He murmured and Sherlock nodded, rolling and grabbing the phone.

"It's Lestrade," he commented before answering the phone and stepping away from John. John straightened his clothes and sat up. If Lestrade was calling past midnight, it was important. Taking Sherlock's sudden facial expression, it was more than important.

Once he hung up, Sherlock looked to John and John shifted his hips, feeling his hard-on much more now that Sherlock's eyes were on him, gravitating downward and then smirking.

"There was a pile-up of bodies. Six in total. All shot in the head. No gun or weapon otherwise found. They each had a different picture of me folded into their hands. Apparently Lestrade is sure it's Moriarty just because of this."

"A different picture for each?"

"Yes. Is that the only thing you got out of that?"

"It's just weird." Sherlock nodded in agreement and started pulling on clothes. John stood and went for the door. Sherlock gently touched his arm and he turned to face him. "Don't let Moriarty know what just happened between us. Even if you have to kiss him again."

"Okay."

"He can't know about it because he may use it against us. Just like he used our friendship last time. Don't give him fuel. I'll wait by the door for you." John nodded and left Sherlock ,feeling nervous. How could he keep something like this from Moriarty, a man who could tell what he had for dinner last night when he barely remembered breakfast this morning simply by how old a stain on a cuff link was, or something as such?

Thankfully, Moriarty seemed bored, lying in John's bed facing the opposite wall and not reacting to the knock or opening of the door.

"There's been more murders. They're positive it was you." John said, grabbing some clothes.

"Oh?"

"Each had a different picture in their hands of Sherlock." Moriarty turned over, glaring at John.

"Do I look like I"m a crazed fan-girl?"

"No, not fan-girl. Crazed, yes."

The answer seemed to humor Moriarty for he snapped a few chuckles before turning around and going silent once more.

John left the man and met Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs. As they closed the door to their flat, Sherlock pushed him against the wall, a crooked smile on his face. He kissed him quick, passionate, and suddenly. John was left breathless as Sherlock took the stairs downward.

Following quickly behind, John tried his hardest to calm his racing heart and aching nerves. He was so beyond mad at whomever was killing these people. Not because they were being murderers, which is bad he knew, but because they'd interrupted the most important "conversation" him and Sherlock had been having their whole relationship.

At the crime scene, John forced the humming of his body to relax and wait, be patient. There was no way he could pull Sherlock off a case especially for something as trivial as sex. The man was more interested in staring at six dead women, all shot in the left side of the head. John frowned, looking carefully at them from afar, hoping to see something they all had in common physically.

The only thing he could find was the hair. Each seemed to have dyed their hair, various stages of growing back. A few had fake nails from what he could tell. Some wore high heels. Some had fake tans.

"They're fake." John said aloud and Anderson turned to him, arching an eyebrow.

"No, they're real bodies, John. Go poke one." He snarled and John glared sideways at him.

"I know that, you twat. I'm saying they have something fake about them. Each of them." Sherlock paused and looked up at John, a hardness in his eyes he only got when he was thinking hard. "Dyed hair on them all. Fake nails, heels for fake height. She has a fake tan. There's no way you get that dark here." Sherlock eyed the women and stood.

"It does make sense. But the other women were okay. The woman off the balcony had nothing fake, unless you consider the make-up. If that's so, we'll have no women left." Anderson commented, scratching the side of his neck. Sherlock looked at the man.

"Her nails were fake. They'd been removed and had that fake glue on all of her nails suggesting she was killed before she could clean up. Or maybe removed afterwards. The lady killed with her had dyed hair."

"What?" Lestrade strode up, just catching the butt of the conversation.

"Brown eyebrows, black hair. She obviously didn't like the brown hair."

John sighed as the conversation went from light to full-blown argumentative as Anderson and Sherlock started naming out what was fake about the victims and Lestrade tried finding out why they were so caught up on the topic. Eventually John took him aside and told him, to which Lestrade responded by trying not to smack the two arguing men upside their heads.

"Okay so it's the first thing we have but, let's be honest, it could be just a coincidence given how many women have dyed hair, high heels, or fake nails. The killer might be attracted to it. Or killers. Let's not get all antsy about it."

After a short time, Sherlock asked John if he'd like to go home.

"There's really nothing left to see. It looks fairly black and white from here." There's was slight irritation in his voice. "If Moriarty hadn't come to us, I would be sure this was his doing."

John frowned as they got into a cab. He wasn't as sure about Moriarty's innocence as Sherlock seemed to be. Every new murder, or perhaps batch of murders seemed to point closer and closer to the crazy man who was now in his bedroom, lying in his bed. But, he reminded himself, he had Sherlock's bed so it was pretty much okay.

"I trust you about Moriarty. But who else could be doing this? Who else would be as crazy in his own special way? Is there any possibility that he's doing this by paying someone? He's done it before."

"I see the confusing in his eyes, John. If you must know, I can see how confused and, yes, a bit scared he is. There's nothing more frightening to him than to be convicted of a murder, or murders, he didn't commit. With each new murder, he's more confused. You can't fake the immediate reaction to hearing you're being framed for murder." Sherlock didn't even look at John, but kept his eyes outward, watching the buildings pass.

"Sherlock... I trust you. Completely." John murmured, watching as Sherlock slowly turned his head to look at John. As John had guessed, asking about Moriarty's innocence had hurt Sherlock. It hadn't been about Moriarty's innocence or evil tendencies, but about Sherlock's abilities and his honesty. John hadn't just called him a liar, but also, in Sherlock's term, an idiot. "I don't see things the way you do and it's hard for me to grasp that he isn't killing all these people just for the fun of it. I'm sorry.

"I've never known a man more capable of such greatness as you and I shouldn't doubt you at all. I promise I won't do it again." He gave Sherlock a small peck to his shoulder, smiling apologetically at him.

Sherlock nodded and grabbed John's hand, squeezing just the smallest bit. Once at their home, they walked into their flat, got their bedclothes back on and lied down in the dark together. Words weren't needed between the two of them as they lay in the dark. John lay with his head and arm across Sherlock's chest, feeling the warm flesh under his. The high passion they'd felt earlier was gone and now all they wanted, needed, was to lie together and, in John's case, sleep.

It was almost obvious that Sherlock wouldn't stay still too long, considering the large crime scene they'd just come from. John was surprised he was even lying still currently. For now, he was going to make the most of the warm, solid man and breath in his familiar scent. he'd lived with the man so long but had never realized exactly that his smell was everywhere.

"You smell so good," John mumbled, more than half asleep. Sherlock smiled wide, suddenly, and looked at the blond patch of hair he could see. He wrapped his arm tighter across the mans back, feeling the curve of his hip.

"I haven't been able to keep your smell out of my nose for years." Sherlock whispered, knowing John was deep enough to not hear him. He talked anyway. "I breath you every morning and night and I'm okay with that. I need it sometimes." He bit his own lip, feeling exposed and pained at what he was vocalizing, even though John made no move and possibly was fully asleep already.

He murmured into John's hair, about how much he appreciated his help and compassion and how much he hated his tea.

"You make the ghastliest tea. I'm going to have to teach you how to make it right." Sherlock stopped talking, realizing that if he babbled that John might wake up. So, against all John knew, Sherlock readied himself to stay all night, possibly sleep, and cuddled his blogger closer.


	9. Finally A Lead

John woke up with the side of the bed that Sherlock had occupied fairly warm still. He looked over and saw Sherlock occupied while looking at pictures most likely from the crime scene. The man was so occupied that he didn't even look up when John rose and left the room. John went upstairs to get some clothes for the day and discovered Moriarty wasn't there, so he was most likely downstairs somewhere.

Going downstairs, he wasn't really surprised to see Moriarty sitting at the kitchen table. He was, though, surprised when Moriarty looked up, a calm expression on his face.

"You're out of milk. Sorry." John doubted the man really was sorry and was tremendously curious as to what had possessed him to say such a thing. Probably trying to act friendly after what had occurred between them. Nice try.

"Okay, I'll get some. If Sherlock gets up, don't tell him I went off to die." John remarked and Moriarty's face split into a shit-eating grin and John realized he probably shouldn't have asked that of a psycho. Way to go John...

John booked it to his coat, as quick as he could without showing too much gratitude towards not having to sit with Moriarty, and went out the door. Moriarty waited until he heard John's steps on the stairs before he rose and went to the window. He watched the doctor walk down the street with a purpose, his coat pulled tight around him due to the cold.

Immediately after knowing John was gone for a while yet, he turned on his heel and stalked to Sherlock's door. If he could get such a strange reaction from John without an explanation, such as that he wasn't gay, maybe he'd be able to get something from Sherlock.

He didn't knock, but rather opened the door and peered in. Sherlock was sitting on a chair, staring at a bunch of pictures of dead women, most likely those Moriarty was being framed for. He stood for a while, wondering if Sherlock would notice, as usual, someone was there. After a good, solid five minutes, Sherlock had barely made a move.

Creeped out, Moriarty walked into the room and his eyebrows drew together as he realized that yes, Sherlock was not only still awake but breathing. His face was screwed up in thought as he looked at the pictures, his hands clasped in front of his face, fingers touching his lips gently.

Interested, Moriarty slipped behind Sherlock and looked at the pictures. The murders were sloppy, which he knew Sherlock could see. There was no way anyone should think Moriarty had done them. It wasn't clean enough. Besides, he had to just look at the photographs to know their links. So why was Sherlock so intently staring at the photos? Trying to find out who would do this, blaming Moriarty.

He slowly pushed his hands forward, making sure to calculate the correct pressure that John would do. Given the fact that both men had been in this room last night, he desired to find out how special their relationship really was. Sherlock's shoulders ever so slightly shifted and he made a noise. Smiling, Moriarty pressed up gently against the mans back, breathing on the back of his neck.

"John, i'm busy..." Sherlock started but then stopped, flinching so hard Moriarty pulled back quick as lightning. Sherlock spun and rose, scattering photos along the floor. His eyes flashed furry. "Moriarty..."

"Spare me whatever you were to say. Are you and John really..." He smiled, implying the reaction he'd received by touching Sherlock.

"John and I are friends, strictly so. At times, he uses strange methods to pull me out of thought. He's touched me around the waist before. He wanted to make sure I didn't hit him when I fazed back. What you saw has actually happened, only John claims I struck him once." Sherlock explained calmly, as if it were the honest-to-god truth. Moriarty, sad to say, couldn't figure out if it was a truth or lies. Sherlock was almost impossible to read currently, for some reason. Other times, he was see-through. Sometimes, he was a solid wall.

"Do friends sleep over in each others' beds?"

"Only if there's a psycho murderer in one of their beds." Sherlock's eyes burrowed into Moriarty who would have been less than stupid to not catch the implication. Moriarty couldn't honestly say if the man was telling the truth or not. Yet why did he have reason to lie? Moriarty already knew that he had to go for John if he wanted to phase Sherlock. Why would acting as if them being a couple make it worse for them?

Accepting the possibility that they were honestly just really close friends, Moriarty dropped the subject and looked at the pictures.

"The murders are sloppy." He commented matter-of-factly. Sherlock nodded.

"I can't seem to figure out who would want to blame you for such work. You've never been sloppy. They can't possibly think it'd work."

"Had it been? With the police I mean?"

"Some think so but not all of them. They seem to have taken my word for it that you aren't responsible, though I haven't pushed the issue. No point in it if there are no other leads to go on."

"What leads do you have?"

"John seems to think they're related due to their dyed hair, fake nails, and tans." Sherlock eyed Moriarty, wondering what he'd say to this. A wide grin spread across Moriarty's face.

"He completely missed it, didn't he?"

"I wouldn't expect him to notice it, since the detail is so small." Sherlock smiled. The two men, their minds constantly running wild and crazy, shared a knowing smile as the pictures Sherlock was looking at suddenly seemed so obvious and Sherlock felt, honestly, like he wasn't the only intelligent man.

It was a warm feeling. Moriarty's smile softened as he picked the pictures off the floor and spread them out. The two men immediately pointed out in each picture what drew the killers to them. They together answered the "Why?" The only question now was who.

When John got back, the two men were in the living room, staring at the wall where pictures and strings mapped out the murders and times and they were talking so fast at each other that John couldn't understand a word. Neither noticed of his existence so he went to the kitchen with the milk and made tea as well as something for breakfast. He'd been gone under an hour. Curiously, he was dreadfully worried as to what had transpired while he'd been out.

By the time he had finished and cleaned up after himself, both men had quieted and when John peaked around the corner he saw them bent over paper, each with a pen writing furiously at each other. John didn't know exactly how to handle this. Having two of them was going to be difficult to deal with. Maybe he should go see if Mrs. Hudson needed anything...

"John!" Sherlock cried suddenly and John flinched, looking at the man as he held a hand out. "I asked for a map?"

John frowned, confused. Then he rolled his eyes and sighed, going in search of a map. Of course Sherlock had asked for one. Probably a while ago while he'd been out. Who knew?

Handing him the map, Sherlock snatched John's hand and looked up with a smile that almost melted John on the spot. Moriarty glanced up, frowning ever so slightly before bending his head back down to the work. John felt his cheeks flush and Sherlock smiled wider, knowing he'd borderline embarrassed his blogger.

"Thank you," Sherlock said and John nodded, taking a step back and Sherlock let him go and bent back to the work.

John stood a moment before turning. He paused, looked back for a second look. Something about the first victim caught his eye.

"I know that." John murmured to himself. Both geniuses paused, looking up at him. John reddened but leaned down, pointing at a spot just behind her left ear. The picture showed a tattoo, just barely. The tattoo was of a crescent moon and a sun mingling with each other.

"Where do you know it from?" Sherlock asked, intensity in his eyes.

"One of the women in the crowd... while you were looking over the second body that was found. She was one of the people behind the tape. Lestrade had questioned her but I felt like I needed to ask a few questions of my own. She had the tattoo in the same spot."

Both men looked at one another, smiles lighting up their faces.


	10. Somewhat Getting Along

"Obviously Sherlock missed the conversation because he finds the input of other people almost completely useless." John mumbled. The two other men had told him to sit and tell them everything. Sherlock made a face at the comment but John made no move to change his sentence. "She seemed surprised I noticed it, and moved her hair to cover it afterwards. She said it was some kind of tattoo her and her best friends got one night to show how much they meant to one another."

"Enough to die." Moriarty murmured, shifting one of the pictures so he could better see one of the girls' tattoos. Each one was set in a different area but Sherlock had made sure to tell Lestrade to capture each one.

"So when I suggested it was their fake attributes..." John ventured and Sherlock scoffed, Moriarty smiled.

"It was a nice thought, but most women would be dead by now, John. It's almost never the most obvious answer and it was rather barely coincidence that they all shared a falseness about them. It's more common than not."

John frowned but nodded, understanding. "Okay so there's an obvious connection, but what does the symbol mean?"

Moriarty leaned back, taking this one. "It's part of a cult. Rarely used nowadays but obviously still around. It's only women, obviously. They latch onto something and turn it godlike. I had a row with them quiet a few years back."

"Let me guess, they latched onto you and started up with this crap when you came back. Trying to win your good graces." John said dryly and Sherlock eyed him, expressionless. Moriarty looked at him, head cocked every so slightly to the side, a hard look in his eyes.

"I would never allow such sloppy work in my murderers." John sat back, his spine straight as a rod.

"You hold competitions to see which ones are better?" John said calmly, acid dripping from each word. Moriarty's face split into a smile.

"You don't remember the first cases Sherlock and you worked on together? What did you think I was doing? Honestly, I quickly found out that Sherlock would most likely catch anyone so it wasn't fair. But it was very fun."

John didn't think it was very fun, obviously. Sherlock knew just as much. It was a thing about the doctor to feel pity for the dead. Sherlock admitted, to himself, that it had been a smart plan. Not one he would do, seeing as how he didn't run a bunch of serial killers, but he may do (or have done) a similar way to know who best to work with. If John hadn't made the cut, he'd have moved on to other people.

Sherlock looked to John from the corner of his eye and felt a happiness blossom in his chest. Last night had been an amazing night. The first he'd ever been able to lie still for six straight hours, not bored. He'd slept maybe two somewhere in the middle of those six, but otherwise he'd lain in the dark, John curled next to him.

He'd only gotten up to look at the pictures, trying to see if the tattoo's were different in any way from each other, maybe there were ranks. That was until Moriarty interrupted him and they go to talking about the murders and he brought up how they were part of a cult-type group and the tattoo's didn't have anything to do with rank, rather they knew who was above them. Moriarty had, though, only given this information shortly before John had come home.

Sherlock explained all of this to John while Moriarty waited not-so-patiently.

"The woman you saw was most likely the woman killing the others. One of them, at least."

"I would watch out where you go." Moriarty almost whispered and both men turned their heads to him, curious. "If she is the one killing them and she knows you're on the case, wouldn't she make you a threat? It's obvious they're not shy about killing people and leaving the bodies scattered. No reason they would hesitate to take you out as a, say, competition to reach a higher rank. You'd be surprised how many unsolved deaths were caused by these women over the years. More oftentimes men. They're like feminists only quieter."

John hadn't thought his life would be in danger in this case. Now, he was hyper-sensitively aware of it.

"Okay, so don't get cornered by a bunch of women, preferably if they have scarves." John mumbled and Sherlock smirked. Moriarty's eyebrows rose a slight bit but no one said anything for a few long, awkward minutes.

"Question," John said suddenly, making both Sherlock and Moriarty look at him sharply. "If they practically worship you, why are they pinning the murders on you?"

Sherlock and Moriarty shared a look in which John apparently completely missed a silence argument, one which Sherlock seemed to win. With a smug look, Sherlock looked to John.

"It's only logical that the women don't believe Moriarty is back. They must have gathered his fingerprints within the last few months and are now using them to try and sick the police onto him."

"Last time I trust a woman," Moriarty said with a soft chuckle. John only found it somewhat funny. But to be honest, he figured it was probably true, all of this. Unfortunate, but true.

"Okay, so what do we do about it? They're basically a bunch of women killing each other and framing an actual murderer. I mean, do we even stop them?" Sherlock smirked while Moriarty had the audacity to look shocked. John didn't see much wrong with letting killers destroy one another.

"They must be stopped, it's not an option." Sherlock said, gaining a curious look from John. "Regardless of the fact that everyone involved is a murderer, there is the possibility that they could harm... John." In other words Sherlock would kill them all if they laid a hand on John. At least, that's what John got from the dark, dangerous look Sherlock suddenly had about him.

After concluding that they should figure out what course of action to take, but that they needed a break from talking to one another, the three split up. Moriarty went upstairs, telling John his room was plain and promised not to make it, in his words, more amusing. Sherlock went to the kitchen, most likely to check up on an experiment of his. John stayed in the living room. It was better here anyway.

When Sherlock was done doing whatever Sherlock did in the kitchen, he came to the living room. John avoided the kitchen when he was in there almost like the plague was set loose. Sometimes, it seemed that way.

"Moriarty isn't an innocent." Sherlock said calmly, looking at John who was staring at all the information about the killings. "He never was but in this case, in these murders, he didn't kill them. These women need to be stopped and Moriarty can help. Once it's done, he'll most likely disappear again."

"Why didn't he do that? Last string of murders he wanted solved he threatened you and gave you time limits. Why risk almost everything coming here?"

"I think his network is damaged. The other network that I didn't take down. He stares at his phone like he would love to make it scream in pain. I believe he's tried his disappearing act, but to no avail. And he knows how I love mysteries." John eyed Sherlock, realizing, quiet possibly for the first time, how amazing this man was. Sure, he'd said it a million and a half times, but to really grasp it was something else close to wonder. The intellect inside the mans brain was so amazing he didn't think, as smart and crazy as Moriarty or The Woman were, that they even came close.

Sherlock rose and smiled, taking John's hand and leading him to the bedroom they had shared last night. John was intrigued by the prospect of what was to come, licking his lips as he watched the man walk down the hallway, his long legs flexing. How had he not noticed the effortless grace with which Sherlock carried himself?

Closing the door, Sherlock pressed a gentle, promising kiss on John's lips only to smile as John pressed harder.

The two men stumbled, falling across one another as they fell to Sherlock's bed. Suddenly, an urgency neither of them expected, the clothes ripped away and their passions spiraled, jumping off of each other only to rise higher and higher.

Moments ago, John hadn't been the slightest interested in more than a kiss, but now he wanted to be consumed by Sherlock, to inhale his smell so deep into his senses it was the only thing he'd ever smell. They wrapped around each other, only boxer briefs separating their skin. It was the closest either had been to the other, and they were too high to be shy.

As fingers started roaming, exploring, mapping out one another's bodies, they lost touch with the time that passed, with the amount of kisses they shared. Like little kids, they'd hushed when Moriarty had come down for a shower and they'd played a silly game, trying to make the other moan or groan so loud Moriarty might here.

John was convinced Sherlock had taken mushrooms in the kitchen, for he'd never seen the man like this before. It was quiet uncivilized of Sherlock to giggle for any reason, let alone try and bite his bare ribs for a moan that may expose their full relationship to their, as Sherlock put it, archenemy. Did people even have those? Since Mycroft was also considered an archenemy by Sherlock, John figured they did.

Just as Sherlock started to explore John's hips, making the doctor quite red in the face, and John finding the exact contours of Sherlock's spine, Sherlock's phone buzzed.

All four hands paused, a bated breath hung in the air and when the buzz came again, Sherlock rolled away and snatched the phone, rising to a sitting position.

"Lestrade," he mumbled before answering. John tuned him out, not wanting to listen in. Sherlock would tell him he parts that were important, if need be.

When the conversation was over, Sherlock ran his hands through John's hair, pulling the man into a deep, pleasurable kiss. Pulling back, gaining an unhappy groan from John, Sherlock smiled and pecked the tip of his nose.

"I apologize for killing the mood but Lestrade says there's a hostage situation and the woman is demanding Moriarty."

"Send him, then." John was sour, the mood having been slaughtered.

"They don't know he's at our place. We could still be tried for harboring a known murderer. As well, Lestrade would never listen to me agian. They'd all assume I helped with all the murders. I'm not ready to give up the life I have right now for him."

"Then how do we deal with the woman if we aren't Mor..." Sherlock touched a finger to his lips, rising from the bed.

"We send him to meet up with us at the scene. Say he heard the woman wanted to speak with him. The man's escaped worse places before."


	11. Moriarty's Opinion

To say Moriarty was upset about having to give himself up, virtually, would be putting it lightly. He groaned angrily, but not protesting, as the three men readied themselves for the road ahead them.

Sherlock was talking through Moriarty, telling him exactly what needed to be done. He was telling the man exactly what the story was so Sherlock and John didn't end up in trouble for harboring him in their flat. Moriarty was groaning about being treated like an imbecile, informing Sherlock he knew exactly what needed to be done. John stayed away from them both, getting his coat on and waiting to leave, for fear of being brought into this, lest it lead to blows.

Eventually, Sherlock was satisfied that Moriarty knew what to do, even though they'd yelled quiet loudly at one another for over ten minutes, Moriarty left. To avoid being seen and put into connection with the detective and doctor, Moriarty left outside the back way, rarely used. He was to show up very shortly before John and Sherlock themselves, hopefully keeping the surprise at Moriarty actually showing up somewhat down.

Giving five minutes to the man, John and Sherlock left the flat and headed off to where the hostage situation was.

"You are sure no one would have seen him leave the flat?" John asked curiously, hands in his pockets.

"I'm not sure. But I am sure it wouldn't matter. Most people who may have seen him leave possibly wouldn't connect the dots. Besides, he left from the back, remember?" John shrugged one shoulder, following his flat mate.

In almost record time, given Sherlock was anxious to make it to the situation before it escalated with the arrival of Moriarty, the boys showed up. Certainly, as planned, Moriarty was being shouted at to get on the ground by Lestrade and Anderson, a few other nameless officers behind them with their guns up. Moriarty looked rather bored, hands hanging to his sides. He neither acknowledged the officers nor seemed to be ignoring them. Simply staring at them like they were speaking a different, alien language.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock called when they came within earshot. The mans head spun sharply, surprise lighting up his face as Sherlock and John walked up quickly, barely second glancing Moriarty across the street.

"We came, figuring you'd need extra help." Sherlock said calmly, clasping his hands behind his back. John licked his lips, showing nervousness as he eyed Moriarty who took on a serious expression. It was necessary to act like they hadn't lived in the same space, so Moriarty was to be just as hate-filled to the two men as ever.

"I... did you get Moriarty to come?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

"I may have hinted to one of his spies that a hostage situation was abroad. I figured he'd hear it and wonder exactly why this woman wanted to speak to him, of all people. He's not exactly a saint to confess to towards the end of life."

"Yes, well, I..." Lestrade was about to say something when a shout, feminine scream rang through the air. Everyone looked up to the balcony of the building they surrounded. A woman wearing a flowing pink dress stood on the top. Three stories up, she stood, obviously in heels. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, catching the faintests of hints that someone was behind the woman.

"Is Moriarty here yet?" The woman called out, her voice shaky.

"She wasn't there when we showed up." John murmured and Sherlock agreed with a nod of his head. "Must have screamed when she realized what she had to do."

"She's been up and down that rail for the last hour or so." Lestrade commented, gaining a look from both men. "Every time she goes up, she demands Moriarty and spend a few minutes teetering back and forth. We brought a safe-fall in but the woman holding her hostage threatened to shoot her before she pushed her if we set it up."

"Have you sent anyone into the building?" John inquired and Lestrade nodded. Anderson was still keeping a sharp eye on Moriarty, the only person still worried about the man. Everyone else was looking up at the woman, soft sobs falling to their ears.

"There's women threatening murder and violence at every entrance. After the second attempt, we were threatened that all hostages would be killed if we tried again. We called for a negotiator but they refuse to listen to anyone but Moriarty."

Sherlock frowned in thought. John eyed Moriarty, wondering if the man was curious enough about their intent to put himself in danger of them. Maybe not, but then again he did have more than one of his screws loose. Maybe all of them.

Without a word to anyone, least of all Sherlock, John spun and walked to Moriarty. His soft stance stiffened and his face hardened as John came within a few feet. He heard Anderson and them yelling behind him to stop and come back. He downright ignored them. Moriarty's face had the slightest trace of a smirk as John stopped.

"You're going to go up there."

"Why would I do such a thing like that? I know why they're killing people and this is their last stand, seemingly. I should just slip away."

John didn't know what he was doing. Maybe having Sherlock kiss him, maybe knowing the man actually cared for something, which so happened to be him, maybe the last few weeks living with Moriarty gave him courage. Maybe realizing that so many people have been murdered and the only person who could possibly stop it was a crazed, emotionless maniac gave him belief that he needed to do anything. Before he could stop himself, John spun and rushed over to Anderson.

The officer looked shocked, therefor when John grabbed the gun and twisted, Anderson released almost immediately. John spun back around, noting the surprised look on everyone's face, including Sherlock. He held the gun up to Moriarty's eye level and stalked across the street until the gun was flush with the psycho's skin.

"You are going to go into the building and save those women." Johns voice was dangerously calm and Moriarty eyed him, obviously judging if the threat was serious. "And if you think I won't shoot you, just remember that I've killed someone for Sherlock and you've threatened his life more times than I'm willing to forgive."

Moriarty's eyebrows rose. "How many times is that?"

"All of them. Now get moving." The smile that started across Moriarty's face angered John so much, his skin crawled. He pointed the gun down and shot between the mans' feet. He heard Lestrade call out, could vaguely make out Sherlock's voice as well, but he didn't care. He'd already broken a few laws without thinking so what was so bad about trying to save a few people's lives before he finished his criminal spree?

"What if the women held hostage are apart of the cult? There are actors out there not on TV, I'm sure you are aware." Moriarty said, his face having showing, for only a moment, utter surprise and a tad bit of fear after John had shot the ground.

"Then I guess we'll find out, won't we?" He twitched the gun, letting Moriarty know he need to start moving.

Surprisingly, the psycho actually started heading forward. Lestrade finally realized what was happening and grabbed a bull horn to which he aimed upwards.

"Moriarty is finally here. Would you like him inside?"

"SEND HIM IN!" Came the reply and a loud, surprised scream filled the air as the woman on the rail was violently pulled back inside, the door slamming shut so hard everyone heard it.

Moriarty paused, making it seem like he was going to change his mind. John shoved his arm against the back of both of his shoulders, forcing him forward.

"Don't play me, Moriarty." John hissed. Moriarty took it and continued forward without another need for urging.

Moriarty mumbled something as they came up to one of the doors, a woman with a large gun in her hands motioning them to wait.

"What did you say?" John inquired. Moriarty turned sideways slowly, letting John know he wasn't going to do anything that might trigger John to get defensive and possibly shoot.

"I said you and Sherlock are made for one another." John stiffened, trying but failing to show how shocked he was. Moriarty didn't seem to notice. "He's the intelligence that solves the problems. And you are there for the force."

"Force?"

"You're holding a gun to me in order to attempt saving a handful of women who may die anyway." John felt heat rise in his cheeks, but it wasn't embarrassment.

"I do what I need to."

"In order for Sherlock to not have to get his hands dirty, allowing his intelligence to stay the way it is, you pick up the gun. He needs you." John blinked rapidly, unsure how to respond to that. When he didn't reply, Moriarty smirked. "I know you like him, dumb ass. Just keep him safe for me, okay? I don't want to be beating a corpse when I get free again. Somehow."

John opened his mouth but was stopped short of saying anything when the woman opened the door and told, in a not so kind of a voice, for Moriarty to get inside.

When Moriarty was inside and the door closed, the woman motioned that John better leave or she'd splatter his brains. John didn't take telling twice, so he slowly backed away until he felt comfortable, then he turned around and walked back to Anderson. He had a sour look on his face as John gave back his firearm. Sherlock was expressionless and John walked up to where he and Lestrade stood.

Lestrade looked at John, obviously furious. Instead of the angry chewing-down he expected, Lestrade simply nodded at him and looked up at the balcony.

It would be a long few hours before anyone knew what was happening inside the building.


	12. The Dead Shall Fall

**WARNING HEAVY DEATH POSSIBLY TOO GRAPHIC FOR SOME** Please enjoy.

* * *

It was dark outside, the only light from street lamps and the police cars. Occasional lighters, and then cigarettes or cigars, lit up the darkness. As well, light inside the building would turn on or off, like someone was leisurely searching through them. The room where the woman in the pink dress had stood upon the railing stayed lit up the whole time.

Lestrade had a report made up about the possibility of who was in the building. Yet none of the photos of the people who were supposed to live here, in the apartments, had matched any of the women.

Sherlock and John had looked through them all but even Sherlock couldn't say he'd seen any of them.

Lestrade had been busy trying to locate any of the people for the last few hours, growing concerned at the large number of missing people. Sherlock wasn't worried.

"If they had killed them they would have left the bodies out. They have for every other murder. Either their alive or they're dead inside the building. We can only wait until your men go inside." Sherlock explained himself in an emotionless way and John couldn't blame him. The amount of lives missing was staggering but there was nothing they could do currently with so many lives hanging in the balance in front of them.

Sherlock and John were leaning against a cop car, a hot cup of coffee in their hands to help keep them warm, cutesy of Anderson. They hadn't spoken about John's outburst towards Moriarty and that was fine with John. He probably couldn't explain himself if Sherlock had asked anyway.

"It's been an awfully long time since Moriarty went inside." John commented, looking up at the building, sighing.

"Yes, it has. I wonder what they have to talk about. Moriarty isn't one for chit-chat." John turned and smiled at Sherlock who smiled back. Regardless of the officers around them, Sherlock leaned forward and brushed his lips against Johns. Taking the hint, John kissed him outright before he could pull way. Sherlock touched his cheek gently, smiling against the doctors lips. John sighed happily as they pulled from one another.

If anyone had seen their attentions to one another, nothing was said. All the better for it because neither man would have cared. Just as John was about to lean for another kiss, more warning than the coffee, he heard a heavy thud.

Sherlock stiffened and John looked at his face. His eyes were focused on something just to the side of John and he was terrified to look. Almost as if in slow motion, John turned. Midway to turning, a scream shattered the silence in the air. Another heavy thud shook through John's being.

Upon the ground, in front of the building, lay two bodies. Lestrade yelled for a light and almost a dozen lights shown upon the ground. A woman wearing a pink, flowing dress lay on her back, her features barely screwed up, blood starting to pool under her head. Next to her was the woman John had seen at the door when he forced Moriarty in.

Lights shown upwards, catching another woman thrown over the edge and spiraling downwards. She landed, half on top of the woman in pink, a heavy thud going straight through John. The woman had been thrown, but she hadn't screamed. The one who screamed was an officer, who was quickly followed by a few others as a fourth body was thrown to her death.

"Moriarty," Sherlock breathed and John tore his eyes from the bodies and looked upwards just in time to see the spycho throwing another woman over. He had a twisted smile on his face as he spun around back into the lit room.

"Dear God," John breathed back, feeling shivers start to enter his body as policemen started pulling an inflatable towards the drop zone. John wasn't sure they'd be able to save anyone by how long they were taking. It all depended on how many were in the building.

John felt Sherlock behind him, wrapping strong arms around his waist. Another thud, followed by a scream as Moriarty's laugh filled the air, another thud followed. John heard Lestrade yelling for the workers to pick up the pace, hurry, hurry, hurry.

It seemed like hours passed, which was closer to five or ten minutes, before the cops finally got the inflatable set just right, having moved the bodies as quickly as possible. Sherlock and John had stood off to the side, letting the officers work. One officer had thrown up the contents of whatever he'd eaten or drank the last few hours right on the street.

"It's going to be okay." Sherlock said against his ear. John felt every drop as if he was being stabbed. Sherlock's voice wasn't steady at all, leading John to believe the man actually felt sorry for the women.

After three more women were dropped, Moriarty's laughter having stopped when he realized the inflatable was saving the women, the whole thing seemed to stop. The light went out and no more noise happened. The three women who'd been dropped were unconscious from a hard blow to the head. It was pointed out that the other women possibly had been unconscious when thrown over as well, resulting in a less-than-horrid feeling in John's stomach. At least they hadn't known they were to die this way.

Officers swarmed into the building, ready for Moriarty who had just committed mass murder in front of them. Others stayed behind and moved the three surviving women to an ambulance. Sherlock eyed the ground, seeing blood and bits of grey matter in the lights shinning down.

After waiting a few minutes, the lights shut off, darkening the deep blood stains on the pavement. John was thankful for this. Lestrade had headed the raid into the building and so Anderson stood by them, waiting for any word.

Sherlock felt his phone buzz and he gave an apologetic look to John who nodded his understanding. He stepped away two and a half steps and looked to his phone.

_They tried making me take their blame._ JM

Sherlock starred at the text for only a few moments before his phone rang again.

_I'll see you soon. Take care of the doctor for me._ JM

Sherlock licked his lips, deciding to not show Anderson the texts. He showed back up to John's side and smiled at Anderson, a grim pull of the lips.

"Moriarty is gone." Sherlock said and John pinched his lips together, believing the man before it could even be confirmed.

"How do you know?" Anderson asked, more curious than threatening.

"He just committed mass murder. Would you stick around?"

"No, but where would he go?" John wondered aloud.

"The system that had fallen was possibly due to the women committing all the murders. They probably attempted to infiltrate his system. Now that all but three are dead, seemingly, the system must have pulled itself back together. He's been gone since the light went out in the room." Sherlock grabbed John and started walking away from him. Anderson spun, confused.

"Wait, he wasn't the killer?"

"No, these women were. They were trying to frame him."

"Really?"

"It's obvious, Anderson." And with that, Sherlock walked John home.


	13. Epilogue: Passions

Sherlock wasn't one to enjoy touching, or being touched, but tonight he made a huge exception. His hands roamed the expanse of John's chest, his ribs and shoulders. His fingers danced across each rib bone, traced the outlines of his shoulders, tingled across his arms to his elbows where he rubbed the inside crook.

He told John not to move, unless he urged with a touch or pull. Obedient, John complied regardless of the torture Sherlock gave. The touching was oftentimes followed by a fluttering of lips. Sherlock bent down and kissed the ends of each rib, licked the blonde hair that led down to below his trousers. He nuzzled John's neck, licking his shoulders and nipping gently, pulling tiny, surprised gasps from John, his hands balled at his sides.

Sherlock nipped right next to John's belly button, gaining a buck from his hips. He smiled, wrapping his long fingers around John's hips, keeping him in place. He okay'd John to touch his hair, wrap his fingers if he wanted. Almost immediately his long fingers curled into Sherlock's dark, curly hair. Smiling into John's stomach, Sherlock licked and suckled his soft, tender skin, paying attention to the most tender areas of the inside curve to the hip. John moaned, straining his hips upward, fingers clenched tight. Sherlock wondered how much longer he could torture John but figured that this was one of many, many times he'd get to do this.

Sitting up, he tore the button and zipper on John's trousers. John gasped, bucking once as his member bulged outward, covered only by the flimsy material of his undergarments.

"No!" John cried, startling Sherlock into stopped dead, his hands inches from pulling John's trousers farther down. His mind raced, thinking of everything that had just happened and tried desperately to figure out what he'd done wrong, where he'd missed a vital tell.

"I want..." John gasped, pleasure obviously still spiking in his brain. "I want to touch you." Sherlock's racing brain slowed when he realized that John didn't mean no, leave me be, but stop touching. Smiling, Sherlock sat all the way back and John rose, pulling the detectives shirt off, exposing the body that was borderline anorexic.

"Dear God, Sherlock. You look so amazing." John breathed, bending to taste Sherlock's flesh. Shivers of pleasure from hearing his doctor say such things, as well as his lips upon his skin, spiked from his spine all the way into his brain. John grabbed Sherlock, flinging him over and onto his back. They'd taken Sherlock's bed, since John's was too far away.

John gave what he'd received in kind. He touched and nipped, licked and nuzzled every open expanse of flesh he could find, locating the exact rib that made Sherlock moan and buck when nipped. He found that Sherlock loved feeling nails dig into his hips, but only so much. John located every tiny spot that drove his detective crazy, to the point where Sherlock mumbled incoherently, a first.

Feeling like he'd pushed Sherlock a bit too far, he freed the man of his trousers and watched with unbridled passion as his member was revealed, held tenderly only by his thin undergarments. Soon, both boys were rib of their clothing and lying next to each other. They agreed, silently, to give one another time to touch and see, to get used to the idea of another man beside them.

"It's my first time with a man," Sherlock confessed and John smiled.

"Me too."

Sherlock kissed the doctor, long and hard, until their passions rose back to the height of touching, feeling. Only this time, it went to stroking each other's members. John found Sherlock was heavy and velvety to the touch, loved being squeezed and shuddered whenever John ran his hand tightly from hilt to tip in one motion. Sherlock found John was as he was, velvety and heavy but he loved a tight grip, not too tight, and shuddered uncontrollably if Sherlock did quick, short rubs.

Soon, both men were panting at each other, a steady rhythm between them, the only sound their heavy breathing and occasional grunt of moan. Sherlock stuck his tongue out, grabbing John's upper lip and biting gently. Both men groaned and their lips crashed together so fiercely they paused their motions.

John almost whimpered as Sherlock pulled away, both men's eyes dark with wild passion.

"I need... something..." Sherlock gasped out and John smiled, licking his lips. Unsure for a split second what was on the doctors mind, Sherlock allowed his head to bend, body to slip downwards. The exact moment he realized John's intentions, he gasped and buried his nails into John's shoulders, too late to do anything but cry out as his soft, pink lips worked on the tip of his shaft.

Shuddering, Sherlock threw his head back and strained, having never felt such an amazing sensation before. No woman he had relations with, which hadn't been many, ever did this as well as John. He licked with no teeth, sucked with a deep tightness in his throat, and groaned just enough to vibrate satisfyingly throughout Sherlock's whole body.

As he came closer and closer to the edge, John picked up the pace that Sherlock strained to make with his hips. John touched with his hands, fingers dancing across Sherlock as he came closer. Just as John dug nails ever so gently into the mans' hips, he shouted, back arching, and spraying his load deep into John's throat. He rode the waves all the way, gently leading Sherlock to a peaceful landing.

Gasping, dazed from the most amazing orgasm he'd received from another person, Sherlock didn't know how to thank John as the doctor lied carefully down next to him, wiping two fingers across his lips, which were slightly swollen from the job he just accomplished. There was a satisfied, coy smile playing upon his lips.

"That was... amazing." Sherlock breathed.

"You're welcome."

Having finally came all the way down, Sherlock took note of John's rather large, pulsing member and he smiled, pushing his friend onto his back. John gave a playful smile, fingers twisting straight into Sherlock's hair as his head bent down.

Knowing the man was strained and on the edge between pleasure and pain, Sherlock made quick work of finding out exactly how to mimic the way John had liked his hand to move. Quick, somewhat strong sucking. He rubbed the lower half of his shaft in order to pay close attention to the tip with his mouth.

"Oh Sherlock!" John cried out, his member pulsing as Sherlock gripped his hip with his only free hand. Sherlock groaned at the sound of his name, causing deep vibrations to shake along John's member. John cried out, on the verge of orgasm and Sherlock slid all the way down, his lips wrapping around John's hilt and sucked, splaying his hands out on the mans exposed stomach, light touches sending John straight off the edge.

Sherlock swallowed it all, feeling the sweet sting of John's fingers in his hair gripping a little too hard. Sherlock realized he didn't mind, for John was riding waves of passion so hard his whole body shook.

Giving in kind, Sherlock slowly helped John come off the height of his orgasm, rubbing all the passion out of him and then lying on the bed,spread out right next to him.

John smiled sleepily at Sherlock, who smiled back slyly.

"You're so perfect." John mumbled, his eyelids dripping down. Sherlock was stunned and fought to keep the emotion from his face. He was plentifully glad John was falling asleep so he couldn't see it. "Handsome and perfect." John mumbled, barely coherently.

"You're the most perfect, John," Sherlock replied, running his fingers through John's hair, barely enough to grab on to, but enough to sooth the man. John slipped into sleep with a pleased sigh and Sherlock grabbed a blanket, wrapping himself in with John.

Before Sherlock fell asleep himself, he pulled John close to him, cuddling the man as close as he possibly could.


End file.
